The door of the Psycho Philosophy Shop is ever so slightly ajar. A candle sheepishly melts amongst the dim shadows. The air reeks of thrifty old women and faded brass band yelps. Only the Lost frequent the merchandise, the Lost and the mistaken. Old things lye about, old things made of iron and wood, tossed in corners are piles of faded newspapers, oil paintings and rare children’s books. A train goes past rattling the floorboards. A cricket scratches its legs next to an empty mousetrap. The darkness talks to itself. It mutters observations so out of date and of no consequence to nobody but somehow the door remains ajar. A breeze brings in a leaf; it skates along a pile of Steinberg drawings. Cold coffee sits next to defunct inventions and rambling plants. A cat snoozes, its master long gone. His mind vacant scratching at the artefacts of absurdity. He sits up. He is looking at you. And suddenly he says “oh a visitor welcome to the Psycho Philosophy Shop, where nothing is for sale but everything has a price.”
